


The Christmas Spirit

by UniverseOnHerShoulders



Series: Prompt Fills [16]
Category: Doctor Who (2005)
Genre: Christmas, Drunken Confessions, F/M, Jealousy, Post-Episode: s09e08 The Zygon Inversion, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-31
Updated: 2016-12-31
Packaged: 2018-09-13 16:20:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,391
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9132043
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/UniverseOnHerShoulders/pseuds/UniverseOnHerShoulders
Summary: When her phone rings in the middle of the night, Clara is surprised to find Osgood calling. She's even more surprised to discover that the world isn't ending, but instead she's needed to come and collect a drunk Doctor from the UNIT Christmas party.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [TheSaddleman](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSaddleman/gifts).



> This fic is for [Alex](http://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSaddleman/pseuds/TheSaddleman), who some time ago half-seriously prompted:
> 
> _A fic where Clara has to go and collect the Doctor from a sports team social, while he's dressed as a fairy. He doesn't even have to be drunk!_
> 
> Extra bonus Bonnie, because I know he was keen on the idea after seeing [Chrissi's](http://archiveofourown.org/users/xXdreameaterXx/pseuds/xXdreameaterXx) [manip](http://dreameater1988.tumblr.com/post/154605721131/twelve-clara-bonnie-requested-by) she made me.

Clara sat up in bed, blinking in the pitch darkness and cursing the tinny ringing of her phone under her breath. Groping around on her bedside table for the offending item, she eventually located it, noticing the time and groaning in resignation to whatever crisis had arisen, before accepting the call and raising it to her ear.

“Hello?” she asked blearily, clearing her throat in an attempt to render her voice less husky with sleep and convince the caller of her alertness, however forced it might be. “It’s nearly midnight, who is this?” 

“Urm, hi,” came an apologetic voice from the other end of the line, almost drowned out by the sound of revellers in the background. “It’s Osgood.” 

“Osgood?” Clara asked, before her brain kicked into gear and she sat up a little further, clutching the duvet to herself as she did so. “Ohhhh, _Osgood_. Sorry, it’s loud your end. Why are you in a bar?” 

“I’m not in a bar, Clara.” 

“Well, a party then. Sounds like a party. Why are you at a party?” 

There was a long pause, before Osgood said in a clipped voice: “Is the insinuation of this that I can’t have fun because I’m a nerd?”

“No,” Clara said too hastily, kicking herself for her choice of words and her judgemental tone, and resolving to make it up to the scientist the next time she saw her. “I mean. Maybe a little. Sorry. It’s late. What’s up?”

“This is up,” Osgood said, before there was a small click and the sound of a Scottish voice slurring _Fairytale of New York_ at maximum volume. With an impending sense of horror, Clara realised who it was and bit back a laugh. 

“Is that…” she began, now wide awake and half-concerned, half-amused, caught somewhere between embarrassment and mirth as she fought to keep her composure. “Is that the Doctor?”

“Yes indeed,” Osgood confirmed, her tone embarrassed. “It was the UNIT Christmas party tonight, and-”

“Hey!” Clara protested with a stab of irritation, abruptly resentful at her exclusion from the revelry. “Where was my invite?” 

“Well,” Osgood mumbled, and Clara pictured her turning red. “About that. We thought we’d got an RSVP from you…”

“But?” 

“Well, it’s one of the joys of working with a Zygon. Bonnie may have intercepted the invite and replied to it… as you. And turned up. Again, as you. None of us were any of the wiser until it was too late.”

“Wasn’t she invited anyway? Seems a touch unfair if you ask me.” Clara felt an odd sense of duty to the Zygon, regardless of the fact that she had held her hostage and tried to use her as a bargaining chip. Megalomania aside, it still seemed unjust to exclude her from the team’s celebrations, particularly at Christmastime. 

“She _did_ murder Jaq and the entirety of one of our squadrons; _and_ imprison you in a pod with an intention to murder you,” Osgood reasoned, and Clara made a non-committal noise. “ _And_ try to take over the entire world via violent rebellion. She’s… tolerated, at best.” 

“She’s your other half! Your… Zygon-sister!” 

“Some of the time, yes. The rest of the time she tends to get distracted. Tries on new faces when she gets bored, that sort of thing. Look, Zygon behaviours aside, we have a problem, and that problem is six-foot-tall, Scottish, drunk, and singing very loudly to terrible Christmas songs. Although I’ve got to say, he’s not singing badly, just loudly.” 

“He doesn’t drink,” Clara argued, scowling in displeasure before realising Osgood couldn’t see her. “How can he be that drunk?” 

“Clearly he does drink.” 

“Not with me, he doesn’t. Hardly touches a drop.” 

“Well, I doubt that very much, seeing as Bonnie was wearing your face, sitting on his lap, and all but pouring tequila shots down his throat five minutes ago.” 

“Wait,” Clara said, trying to process that piece of information and feeling conflicted. She wasn’t sure whether to be jealous or aroused, so she settled for a combination of both as she chose her next words. “Are you telling me that there is someone at… where are you?” 

“My place.”

“Right. Are you telling me that there is someone at your house, pissed off her face, looking like me, and getting the Doctor hammered? With tequila shots and flirting?” 

“In short, yep.” 

“Well, why didn’t you say that to start with?” Clara asked with a mock-exasperated sigh, picturing the situation in her mind’s eye and smirking to herself. Bonnie had some nerve, she had to give her that. There was no way Clara would have dared to try sitting on his lap, drunk or otherwise. “I’ll be there as soon as I can, OK? I’m joining the party. Text me your address.”

“Clara, he’s-”

“I can handle this, OK? I survived uni, I can manage a drunk Time Lord without too much hassle. Just don’t let him drink anything else. Or choke on his own sick, if he reaches that stage before I get there.”

“But-” 

“See you in a few.”

She hung up, fumbling for her bedside lamp and catching her own eye in the mirror on her dressing table as she did so, smiling a small, seductive smile at her own reflection. Yes, it was late, and yes, she had been rudely awoken from a very pleasant dream, but the opportunity to see Bonnie-as-herself flirting with the Doctor was too good to pass up. Jealousy aside, the novelty of the idea was enough to encourage her into motion, and she stumbled to her feet, flinging open her wardrobe and thumbing through it at maximum speed, mulling over the thought of a drunk Time Lord as she did so. She needed the perfect outfit: one that said _party_ and _flirting,_ but not overtly so; she knew the Doctor had a tendency to bolt if his brain was overloaded, and that was something to avoid at all costs. 

With that in mind, she settled upon jeans with a top that showed far more cleavage than she’d ever exposed around the Time Lord, but fuck it, if he was drunk then he was unlikely to remember much of the evening anyway, and besides, it was a party. She battled her hair into submission, swept on an obligatory, festive red lipstick, and then ordered an Uber to the address that Osgood had texted her. Stoke Newington seemed like an unlikely part of town for the quiet, bookish woman to live, but she shrugged and climbed into her cab when it arrived, checking her reflection using her phone screen and smirking with satisfaction. 

“Going somewhere nice, love?” the driver asked after a few minutes of silence, his eyes meeting hers in the rear-view mirror and his mouth quirking up into a friendly smile. 

“A party,” she told him, patting down her hair for a final time and checking there was no lipstick on her teeth. “With friends.” 

“It’s midnight.” 

“Think of me as a reverse Cinderella then,” she gave him a withering look, then softened infinitesimally as she realised he was old enough to be her dad, and probably just as concerned as her own father would be under the circumstances. “Do I look OK?”

“Very nice,” he told her with a wry smile, and ten minutes later they pulled up outside an impossibly well-kept townhouse on an expensive-looking road and she handed him a fiver by way of a tip. “Have a great night, love.”

“Thanks,” Clara said, stepping outside and checking the address in her texts against the house in front of her. Osgood couldn’t possibly live here, she told herself. She couldn’t be getting paid that much. If she was, a change of career could be on the horizon.

Shrugging and throwing caution to the wind, she ascended the steps to the glossy front door and raised the knocker, letting it fall twice before standing back and waiting apprehensively for an answer. There was the muted sound of Christmas music coming from inside the house, and Clara was readying herself to knock again when the door was yanked open with surprising force, light spilling into the street, and Clara took in the sight of the Doctor clad in a pink t-shirt and silver tutu, a pair of sparkly fairy wings attached to his back and a wand clamped in one hand. “Clara!” he enthused, slurring only very slightly as he brandished the wand with somewhat dangerous glee. “It’s… it’s you!” 

“Yes, it’s me,” she said in bemusement, trying not to laugh at his ridiculous outfit. “In contrast to the other me, I believe, who is inside with you.”

“No, it’s _you!_ Clara-” 

Osgood appeared in the doorway looking embarrassed by his behaviour. “I’m sorry,” she said wearily, yanking the Doctor back inside by his t-shirt. “I did try to warn you about the get-up, but you hung up before I could.” 

“Doctor, it’s Christmas, why are you dressed as a fairy?” Clara blurted, unable to help herself from asking the obvious question. “It’s not terribly… festive.” 

“I’m not a fairy,” he said with an exaggerated eye roll in her direction and another flourish of his wand, tapping her on the nose with surprising gentleness. “I’m an angel. Duh.” 

“Angels aren’t pink.” 

“I did some modifications, shh. You see, it’s a mix of angel-white and Doctor-red,” he placed one finger to her lips and grinned drunkenly. “Red! Your lips are all red too.”

“Yes, they are. Can I come in, before I get frostbite and they go blue?”

“Of course, my poor Clara!” he exclaimed in ashamed horror, pulling her into his arms with rather more force than necessary and embracing her in a bear hug that knocked the wind from her lungs. “’M’sorry, you must be cold, come ‘ere. My Clara. I’mma warm you up, Clara.” 

“Doctor,” she mumbled into his chest, jabbing at his sternum with a finger in an attempt to loosen his grasp, before abandoning hope and changing tack. “Doctor, you smell of cocktails. And you’re slightly sticky.”

“Mm-hm,” he concurred happily, nodding as he spoke. “Clara keeps making me cocktails. Not you. Other-Clara. One-Inside Clara.” 

“Not-Clara,” she informed him in the slow, patient tone she had perfected at university for using on drunk friends. “That’s Bonnie.”

“She looks like you.” 

“I know, but… Doctor, look, you’re suffocating me,” she complained, shoving him away insistently and taking grateful lungfuls of air as she stepped across the threshold of the house. “Look, she’s not me.” She slipped off her coat as she spoke and chucked it in the vague direction of the bannister, watching his eyes go as wide as saucers as he took in her outfit. 

“Boobs,” he observed, with a wide, tipsy grin of pleasure, and she feared for one awful moment that he might try honking them. “So much boob. Other-Clara doesn’t have that much boob.” 

“I’m sure she does,” Clara said drily. “She just hasn’t got hers out. Now, I need a drink.” 

“I can fetch a drink,” the Doctor enthused, and bounded away towards what Clara assumed was the kitchen.

“You look nice,” Osgood mumbled, and Clara turned to smile at the scientist in gratitude as she looked around them with curiosity, taking in the minimalist décor and expensive-looking modernist paintings on the walls. “Booby, but nice.” 

“Well,” Clara blushed, adjusting her top a fraction. “Thanks, I guess. I don’t always get to wear this… but I figured it was a special occasion… kinda. So, where is everyone? And is this seriously your house? It’s insane.” 

“Of course it is,” Osgood said, a touch defensively, as Clara continued admiring the artwork. “UNIT paid for it after I uncovered… well, this place is the price of my silence. Top secret, I’m afraid. Everyone is in the lounge. Not many of us came back, but you’re welcome to join us for drinks.” 

“Back from _where_?”

“That new bar up the Shard. We didn’t invite the Doctor – figured he’d pour scorn on the idea of Christmas drinks – but he turned up of his own accord, got absolutely tanked off one whiskey, and then vanished with Bonnie for a bit. We kinda hoped they weren’t coming back here, but they turned up on the doorstep like bad pennies, even more drunk than they had been and giggling like naughty schoolchildren.” 

“Well, where’d they go?”

“Not a clue, they wouldn’t tell us,” Osgood shrugged, and Clara felt jealousy flare in the pit of her stomach at the thought of the Doctor alone in London with her double. What had been curiosity and detached arousal had developed into a possessiveness she was fighting to keep under control, and she wondered if it would be considered impolite if she simply fled now and retreated back to bed. “Come on through.”

Clara swallowed her feelings as best as she was able and followed Osgood into a wide, spacious lounge, looking around at the assembled guests sprawled on the sofas, all of whom seemed to be in varying states of inebriation and deep in conversation.

“Clara!” enthused a blonde woman in the corner, and Clara squinted at her in confusion before realising it was Kate, far more dressed up than she’d ever seen her and almost unrecognisable in a deep green, clinging cocktail dress. “The real one!” 

“Yes, the real one. People keep saying that as though it’s surprising.” 

“Well, we realised Bonnie wasn’t you when she turned into a kitten at the party. Bit of a shock, albeit a rather cute one.” 

“Ah,” Clara laughed at the thought, some of her sour mood dissipating. “That would be the clue. Where is my homicidal double, anyway? She’d better not be off snogging anyone.”

“No-one _you_ haven’t already thought about snogging,” came the odd, clipped version of her voice that Bonnie had adopted, and she turned to take in the disquieting sight of herself, leaning casually in the doorway and smirking with a practiced ease. “Clara.”

“Bonnie. What’s that supposed to mean?” 

“It means that the only one with lipstick on his collar is-”

The Doctor bounded into the room with a half-full glass of white wine held aloft like a trophy, dark lipstick smudged across his cheek and a goofy smile on his face. “Clara!” he exclaimed with triumph, offering it to her with a low bow. “Your drink, madame.”

She took it and set it down on the coffee table, clenching and unclenching her fists before slapping him as hard as she was able across the cheek, her expression cold as she glared at him. “You absolute… you _total_ arsehole.”

“What was that for?!” he asked, eyes wide and uncomprehending as he blinked at her with a sense of childish stupefaction that failed to assuage her temper. “I got you a drink!” 

“You snogged Bonnie?” 

“She snogged me, really. Much like you, she doesn’t take no for an answer. She was quite insistent about it.”

“Sorry,” Osgood interjected, unsettled by the new development. “Just to clarify: you snogged the mildly homicidal Zygon who was intent on overthrowing the human race and taking over the planet?” 

“ _She_ snogged _me_!” he protested again, arms akimbo as Clara scowled at him. “What’s that look for?” 

“You’re an idiot. A total idiot. Where did you and her disappear to, anyway? Osgood said you disappeared, so tell me where you went. Now.” 

“Oh, that!” he said brightly, failing to pick up on the warning note in her tone and instead beaming from ear to ear. “Look!” He yanked up his t-shirt with a flourish, revealing inky black lettering up the side of his ribcage. 

Clara felt her heart stop. She wasn’t sure whether to laugh or cry, to chastise or hug him, and so she went with the neutral option of swearing at maximum volume instead as she tried to think of a more eloquent response. “Fucking hell.” 

“Isn’t it nice? I always wanted one!” 

“You…” she looked at the pleased expression on his face and bit back a laugh. “You absolute prat. That’s there forever.” 

“Not _forever_ ,” he clarified, rolling his eyes heavily at her perceived failure to understand Gallifreyan physiology. “Just until I regenerate.”

“Doctor, you have a Zygon admirer. You have a _wife._ ”

“So?” 

“So, you have my name tattooed on your side!” she all but shouted, losing her cool in the face of his idiocy. “You complete idiot, this is why you shouldn’t drink!” 

“The drinking was Bonnie’s fault.” 

“Hey!” the Zygon complained, frowning at the accusation. “That’s just rude. You were a willing participant.”

“The tattoo was her fault too.” 

“Jesus _wept,_ ” Clara muttered, putting her head in her hands and groaning a touch more theatrically than was strictly necessary. “I’m never letting you out of my sight ever again.” 

“What about when you’re asleep?” he asked, brow furrowing as he tried to make sense of her words. “Or at work?” 

“I’m being metaphorical!” she snapped, before surprising herself and bursting into tears of frustration at the entire situation, sobs shaking her shoulders as she lost control of her emotions. “God, you absolute prat, you have no idea, do you?” 

“No idea of _what_?” he asked in stupefied bewilderment, affixing her with a confused look. “Hey?” 

“You absolute fucking idiot,” she mumbled, shoving him ineffectually as he tried to put his arms around her before consenting to the embrace and resting her head on his chest as she sniffed. “You had to get drunk and snog-”

“Get snogged.” 

“ _Whatever._ That. With the wrong me, didn’t you?” 

“What do you mean?” he frowned, and she realised with mounting frustration that he didn’t understand what she was trying to convey; her point was instead going completely over his head. “Would _you_ like to get drunk with me?” 

“I was thinking more the other part,” she admitted, going pink with embarrassment and burying her face in his chest to avoid looking at him as she made her confession. “But you know.”

“Oh,” he said, as he realised what she meant and smiled. “We can… I mean, we can do that. Sometime that I’m not…” he paused, squinting down at himself as though noticing his outfit for the first time. “Why am I dressed like this?”

“Search me,” Clara said with a shrug, looking to Osgood for clarification on the matter. “Why _is_ he?”

“He, ah… he turned up in his usual getup, had a drink, then announced he was going to get changed and reappeared like that,” she explained, grinning as she spoke. “Said it was more festive.” 

“Ah,” he chuckled lightly, twirling and admiring his tutu as he did so. “Well, Clara, sometime I’m not mildly drunk and dressed like a fairy-” 

“You were _very_ drunk a minute ago,” she accused, narrowing her eyes at him in a silent warning. “If you were play-acting being that tanked, I’m going to be even more pissed off about this situation.” 

“Clara, much like humans I can metabolise alcohol faster when faced with a crisis.” 

“There isn’t a crisis occurring.” 

“You’re crying,” he explained, tilting her chin up to look at him and smiling unabashedly. “That’s a crisis, for me.” 

“You… look, you’re cute, but you’re still a prat.” 

“Look, I’m trying to say that we could maybe do some kissing if you don’t object hugely, and if I’m not drunk or dressed like a fairy at the time,” he rolled his eyes at her frosty demeanour, and her heart leapt as she realised the implications of his words. “Would that be acceptable?” 

By way of an answer, she jumped into his arms, wrapping her legs around his waist and deciding to overlook the small _oof_ noise he made as he caught her. “I think so,” she said with a smile, leaning down and kissing him, before pulling away and booping the tip of his nose. “If it’s as nice as that one was, definitely.” 

“Well then,” his face broke into a grin, before he frowned abruptly and shifted her weight in his arms, making a face of discomfort. “Clara?” 

“No, I’m not getting down. I don’t weigh _that_ much, so don’t even think about moaning.” 

“It’s not that…” he grimaced in pain. “Why does my side hurt?” 

“Ah…” Clara looked between Bonnie and Osgood, biting back a laugh as she wondered how to break the news of his inking to him. “About that…”


End file.
